


Underarmor

by theleaveswant



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Body Hair, Body Part Kinks, Body Worship, Chivalry, Come Shot, Competence Kink, Exposure, Finger Sucking, First Time, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hand Kink, Identity Porn, Licking, M/M, Messy, Military Fetish, Multiple Orgasms, One of My Favorites, Oral Sex, Painplay, Post-Movie(s), Rumors, Scents & Smells, Superheroes, Uniforms, Vulnerability, damnit story how are you so long?!, experienced!Steve Rogers, surprise attacks of tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint catches Rogers looking at him in the field, and invites him to touch. (No major spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underarmor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/gifts).



> Because Hels is a wellspring of good ideas, Jeremy Renner's arms deserve cult worship, and Tumblr exists.

It's not the first time Clint has caught Rogers _looking_ at him in the field. At least it certainly feels like _looking_ , as opposed to regular-old looking. Never when the heat is on, of course, and never to the point of staring, but he definitely does it. There's something about Clint as Hawkeye, suited up and ready for action, that draws Captain America's eye, makes it linger just a little bit longer than professionalism demands. That's okay; there're plenty of things about Cap that draw Clint's eye too, and it's not unheard of for Clint to feel 'noticed' when he's not trying to be invisible.

That said, Clint is more than a little curious to figure out precisely what Rogers thinks he's looking at when he looks at Clint like that, so tonight, when they're in the back of a chopper lifting away from the engagement site with a heavily tranquilized frog monster swaying from the undercarriage like a giant nightmare baby in its bassinet, when he feels Rogers' eyes start to slide over his body, Clint turns away from the dark window to face him. He shifts the microphone on his radio headset away from his mouth and leans across the gap, close enough to be heard over the rotor's purr without having to shout.

“Is there something on my face?” he asks, although he knows it's not his face that Rogers focuses most attention on.

“What?” Rogers asks, his forehead creasing. He adjusts his body and microphone positions to match Clint's.

“I notice you looking at me sometimes.” Clint shrugs. Just curious. No big deal.

“Oh.” Rogers smiles like he has no idea what Clint's talking about, but the disguise is transparent.

“Is it the costume?”

Rogers looks for a beat like he'll try to dodge the question, then sighs and lowers his eyes. “I think it's very brave.”

Clint snorts. “What, the maroon?” He gestures at his chest. “You should see what they had me in before.”

“No.” Rogers shakes his head and looks up at Clint. “It's . . .” He reaches out a gloved hand, his thumb and first two fingers outstretched to ghost along the slope of Clint's arm from the edge of his vest to the joint of his elbow, forearm resting softly against the inner edge of his thigh as he leans forward towards Rogers, keeping the red leather a steady two inches away from sweaty skin. “All this. You're exposed. The rest of us seek protection, wrap ourselves up in as much armor as we can carry, while you're out there with all this bare skin.”

“What about the Hulk?”

Rogers cocks his head, his mouth twisting wryly: that doesn't count, and you know what I mean. “It amazes me to watch you work, knowing—you're already more vulnerable than most of us, without any extra-human tricks up your sleeve, but then to not even bother wearing sleeves . . . You're relying just that little bit more on your skill, and nothing else, to keep you safe. That's brave, and I admire you for it.”

“Brave or stupid,” Clint says, and waves off Rogers' attempt to argue against his self-deprecation. “Nah, it's just . . . It's like working without a net, you know? You fall thinking there'll be something there to catch you, and then one day it's not there, or somebody yanks it out from under you . . . It's safer in the long run not to get used to that, to depend on as little as possible. The less you need, the less you can lose.” Rogers looks at Clint sadly, his lips slightly parted and his long-lashed eyes heavy with pity, and Clint knows he's bared too much, that Rogers has read more deeply than Clint wanted him to. He covers with a crooked grin. “Or so I used to believe, anyway. Now I have you guys. That's better than any net I could hope for.”

Rogers still looks doubtful, so Clint narrows his eyes, turning up the smolder as he steers the conversation back to warmer, shallower waters. 

“So my fragile humpty-dumpty shell, that's really all you had your eye on? 'Cause I don't know, maybe it was my imagination, but for a minute there I was hoping that maybe you wanted a piece of this.”

Rogers frowns. “A piece of . . . ?”

“Of my fine-ass archer booty. Maybe you hadn't noticed, but I'm pretty hot shit, at least for a boring old human.”

“Oh, that,” Rogers laughs, ducking his head to hide a blush. “I actually did notice that.”

“So?” Clint pushes, smirking.

Rogers raises his eyes just a little, squinting cautiously at Clint. His face is still tinted pink, the tips of his ears bright red. “Hoping?” he asks, quietly enough that Clint can't actually hear him over the chopper noise, has to read his lips instead.

The smirk slips from Clint's face and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is rough in a way that has nothing to do with shouting or smoke inhalation or any of the harsh treatment his throat has received in the past few days.

Rogers' upper lip draws back just a little as the tip of his tongue pushes out to wet his lower lip, baring a thin strip of teeth, and Clint's vision zeroes in on that motion, those textures, white and pink all mesmerizingly shiny. “Yeah,” Rogers answers, his voice pitched low, “I want a piece.”

Clint nods again, perfectly casual, as his eyes slide up to meet Rogers', steady as a rock. “When we land?”

“Okay,” Rogers says, and sits back in his seat, readjusting his headset microphone.

They reach the Tower in good time and without incident. Bruce and Maria are waiting by the helipad to handle the transfer. They move in as soon as the bird descends, dropping low enough to brush the sling along the ground and drop a ladder for Clint and Rogers to shimmy down on. Maria extracts promises from each of the two Avengers to submit their SHIELD paperwork first thing in the morning while Bruce launches into a preliminary examination of their sleeping cargo, and Clint and Rogers are cleared to grab their gear and head for the elevator.

Rogers thumbs the button for his floor in the residential part of the tower then steps away from the control panel, but he grabs Clint's hand when Clint goes to do the same, looking down at him questioningly.

“I should probably have a shower first,” Clint explains, and Rogers nods but doesn't let go of his hand.

“Don't,” he says simply.

Clint blinks, then dips his head towards one shoulder. Okay. If Captain America wants Hawkeye grimy and reeking of battle-sweat, that's exactly what he'll get.

The door closes and Rogers lets him go but Clint stays where he's standing, stationed much closer than necessary in the otherwise empty elevator, not quite touching Rogers but staring up into his eyes, tracking the slow blossom of heat behind them, while the skin on his hand tingles where Rogers had gripped it. He feels his heart climbing into his throat in a way that has nothing to do with his body's rapid descent. 

Rogers blinks first, breaking their silent staring contest with a flick of his eyes towards the floor display as they slow, a second before the polite chime that heralds the retracting door. He leans out into the gap, checking that the coast is clear, then gestures decorously for Clint to precede him out into the corridor.

He leads Clint to his apartment and ushers him inside, setting down his shield and helmet beside the door while Clint props his bow and quiver on the nearest chair. “Can I offer you anything to—” Rogers begins as he straightens and swivels to face Clint, but whatever verb came next is lost in a garble of consonants as Clint grabs him by the sides of his cowlless head and draws him down into a kiss.

Rogers reciprocates eagerly and expertly, laying his body against Clint's in a way that emphatically dispels any lingering credulity Clint might have had in the rumor of Rogers's virginal naïveté. Clint breaks the kiss with a gasp, stepping back far enough to unbuckle his gun belt and add that, along with his arm guards, to the collection of his equipment on Rogers' chair, while Rogers strips off his gloves and belt and loosens the collar on his uniform. Then Rogers is on him again, steering him backwards with his hands on Clint's biceps, his strong fingers hooking into Clint's flesh, kneading like a kitten. Clint steals a look over his shoulder at their destination: Rogers' bed, made up so neatly it looks like it's been ironed, the sheets laid out ruler-straight, before Rogers' lips and tongue, tracing along the line of Clint's jaw, find his earlobe, and Clint has to close his eyes, moaning and swaying in Rogers' grasp just a little before his thighs bump into the mattress.

“You're a hell of a kisser,” Clint tells Rogers as he sits down hard on the bed.

“Thank you.” Rogers grins down at him as he vanquishes the many fasteners employed to keep the upper half of Captain America's dashing uniform in place and sheds the garment. “Of course I can't take all the credit.” 

He takes his time peeling out of the moisture-wicking undershirt, keeping his eyes on Clint's face while he teases the blue material up his torso bit by bit, baring his clean, smooth belly in wisps and slivers. It's a treat to watch, of course—Clint has never pretended that Rogers does a less than stellar job of filling out that flashy songbird-plumage suit, and he looks even better _filling it out_ , as the actress said to the bishop—but the best part of the show by far is the sly look Rogers gives him when he finally crosses his arms over his sculpted chest and tosses the shirt one-handed into the hamper beside his dresser.

Clint snorts. “You know I'm going to have a hell of a time not laughing right in the face of the next person who calls you innocent.”

Rogers does his best to act scandalized, batting his eyes coquettishly, but it breaks down in a self-conscious snicker that warms to a purr as he leans down, laying Clint back on the bed with his hands wrapped around the curve of his shoulders. He crawls back down to the foot of the bed and Clint gasps at having Rogers' mouth that close to his crotch, his cock jumping in his pants like it wants to take off and fly, but apparently he's getting ahead of himself because Rogers doesn't unfasten his belt or start mouthing him through the fabric. Instead he takes Clint's left hand and raises it to his lips.

He licks Clint's palm, kisses the heel of his hand and each of his fingertips, then sucks Clint's whole thumb into his mouth, making him grunt and arch up off the bed. Rogers hums and swirls his tongue around a few times, scraping the pad of Clint's thumb with his teeth before he lets it go.

He presses Clint's hand down, palm up, on the bedspread beside his hip, and folds over Clint's lap to kiss his wrist. He begins to trace his way up the inside of Clint's arm with his fingers, not lightly or tentatively but digging deep into the muscle, a firm and insistent massage. His mouth follows, lips dragging and his tongue spread out to lap the dried sweat from his skin, nipping and sucking but not hard enough to bruise, over all the swells of muscle and bulging veins of Clint's arm. Clint moans when Rogers climbs up onto the bed on his knees, frustrated at the loss of the weight and heat of Rogers' chest laid flat across his lap and warming him through his clothes, but Rogers doesn't skip a beat in chewing his way up the crest of Clint's biceps.

Clint expects him to stop when he reaches his deltoids, to switch to his other arm or start working on his clothes or shove his cock in Clint's mouth or something, but he doesn't. What he does is reach down, interlacing the fingers of his right hand with Clint's left and hauling it up the bed, pinning it above Clint's head, and keep licking his way onto the wing of the pectoralis spanning the connection between his torso and arm, and oh. _Oh_. Of course Rogers wasn't just referring to Clint's bare arms when he talked about exposure. Clint should have realized; he's certainly taken advantage of this same vulnerability often enough on other people, shooting around body armor and aiming for the weak spots. He should have anticipated that Rogers would have a similar understanding of the fragility of the human form.

“ . . . Huh,” Clint says when Rogers ducks his head into the hollow of Clint's armpit, nuzzling and sighing happily. That's different.

Rogers hums inquisitively and lifts his face to look at Clint, his pupils huge and dark and very close and his breath gusting wet and heavy between pink and parted lips. “Something wrong?”

“No, that's just . . . not what I thought you were going to do.” Clint frowns.

“Would you rather I didn't?”

“I've never—hrm.” Clint thinks about it, blinking up at Rogers. He's never had a partner into armpits before, that he knows of. Arms and chests, sure, and the general body worship routine is nothing too new, but usually, in Clint's past experience, people pass quickly over the pits on their way to more interesting pastures, giving a more or less wide berth and sometimes avoiding them outright. But Rogers seemed so happy, snuffling and panting open-mouthed, and Clint has no particular hang-ups around his body hair or odor . . . “You know, what the hell. Go to town. Only way to know for sure if you like something is to try it, right?”

Rogers' eyebrows draw together. “I don't want to do anything you don't like.”

“S'cool. I'll let you know if anything stops being fun.”

Rogers smiles, tightens his grip on Clint's knuckles, and drops his head again. He licks the length of Clint's armpit, one long swipe and a couple of shorter flicks of his tongue, then sucks a mouthful of the short, scraggly hair, and Clint _squirms_ because that feels weird, that feels silly, but at the same time it feels kind of good. Rogers' free hand floats to Clint's chest, finding the snaps and buckles and zipper that close Clint's battle vest and releasing them all without looking, spreading the vest open and tugging his undershirt up to his ribs. He splays his long fingers across Clint's belly, which trembles as he gasps, teetering on the edge between laughing and whimpering as Rogers grumbles contentedly into his armpit. 

“Do you—did folks do this a lot, where you come from?” Clint asks, watching the bulges and dips of muscle in Rogers' bare back as he bends towards Clint. Clint's right hand, which he'd nearly forgotten he had what with everything else going on, drifts up to pet Rogers' chest, scratching lightly.

Rogers opens his eyes to look at Clint, easing up on his nibbling treatment of Clint's outer pec, but doesn't answer right away.

“I'm just—I don't mean to.” Clint shrugs. “The armpit thing isn't something I've run into before, so I guess I'm wondering how much of that is cultural and how much is just you.”

Rogers blinks and raises his head, shifting sideways towards the center line of Clint's body. He kisses his breastbone through his shirt, then shrugs. “I never really thought—I know not everybody did it, back then. I suppose I picked it up from,” he pauses, the corner of his mouth crinkling, “someone, rather than figuring it out for myself.” He raises his eyebrows at Clint—does that answer your question?—and Clint nods.

“Thank you.”

Rogers snorts a laugh at his politeness and sits up on his knees, plucking at Clint's shirt. “Now strip.”

“What, you don't like fucking in uniform?” Clint smirks.

“Not if I don't have to,” Rogers says, pulling Clint up by the edges of his armored vest and pushing it off his shoulders.

“I suppose in your case there's probably some kind of statute about desecrating a national symbol.” Clint takes over the task of undressing himself, stripping off his vest and shirt before folding over the edge of the bed to deal with his boots, while Rogers steps back to work on getting his own boots and trousers off. 

Rogers laughs again. “Uh, yeah. And I've already gone about as far as I can without busting that one into a million pieces.”

“You mean there really is a rule?” Clint asks as he shimmies out of his pants and underwear.

“Well, no, or I'd never be able to risk it getting dirty or damaged in battle. It's not technically a flag. The idea still makes me uncomfortable.”

Clint smirks, sitting wide-legged on the bed with his hands beside his knees. “Sexy uncomfortable or 'please stop staring at me like that' uncomfortable?”

Rogers doesn't answer, just grabs him by the scruff of the neck and kisses him again, rough and sloppy. Clint's hands rise to meet him, roaming over thighs, ass, hips, back, and shoulders, and wow, that's distracting. Who knew an armful of naked Captain America would be so effective at wiping Clint's brain completely free of conscious thought? Clint steals a look at Rogers' cock, now bobbing tantalizingly close, and his mouth starts to water. Yes, he thinks, he will have that, he will have that post-haste, but there's something else he wants to try first.

Clint leans back, pulling Rogers on top of him and using the momentum to roll them over so that it's Rogers on his back while Clint crawls over him. He nudges Rogers' arm just above the elbow—some impressively solid muscle right there, not that this ought to come as any sort of surprise—cuing him to raise it out of the way, which Rogers does, smiling up at him slightly bemusedly. Then he gasps, because Clint has his face in his armpit, breathing in the musky smell of him and then darting his tongue out experimentally.

He expects it to be bitter and it is, a bit, but not as bad as he thought. Mostly, surprisingly, Rogers tastes, not like apple pie and freedom and fresh-cut Midwestern lawns or whatever the fuck Clint had teased Coulson about all those months ago when it turned out they were actually going to meet him, but _clean_ , like he isn't sweating out the same toxins that Clint is used to thinking of lurking in people's low-evaporation zones. It makes some sense, Clint thinks; Rogers doesn't smoke, hardly drinks, rarely bothers with painkillers, has a sweet tooth but generally prefers minimally processed foods, put off by the taste of chemical preservatives that Clint and everyone else he knows take for granted. Clint, who's always treated his body like more of a roadside attraction—Bartonia! Home of the world's largest taxidermy orchestra and best butter tarts in the state—than a temple, finds this admirable, endearing, and just a little bit annoying.

He keeps on nuzzling for a while, enjoying the way Rogers squirms like he's not sure if he's trying to get more or get away and empathizing with that crawling almost-pleasure, that teasing not-quite-tickling that skittered along his nerves to his perineum when Rogers did it to him. Still, it doesn't give Clint the same zing that it evidently gives Rogers, who seems happy to be on the receiving end but not combustibly so, so when Clint catches a glimpse of nipple out the corner of his eye he doesn't ignore it but moves over to give it a suck. Rogers likes that, rolling up into the attention with a stuttering breath, yeah, he likes that a lot, and Clint will definitely have to bear that in mind, but right now he has bigger fish to fry. Much bigger fish. Possibly a whale.

Clint's heard all the rumors, of course—that Captain America's dick is the only part of him that the serum didn't affect (in which case, wow, no wonder Private Rogers had trouble with obstacle courses; talk about 'balance problem'), or that penile enhancement was the secret point of the growth project and everything else was just a bonus, and a number in between—but none of the gossip had prepared him for the majesty of Little Steve, live and in the flesh. It's beautiful, long and thick, big in a way that doesn't look disproportionate, curved and _shapely_ and boasting a deliciously textured foreskin. Clint rubs his cheek against it, mindful of his stubble, and drags his lips against the shaft before he ever sticks his tongue out to taste it, and then he licks it all over from base to tip before he actually takes it into his mouth.

Rogers is already panting by the time Clint starts sucking him off, murmuring sweet blasphemous nothings that seem about a thousand times dirtier coming from him, words Clint is sure he's never heard him use before, “god _damn_ you feel so good, so sweet, just like—nngh, oh fuck, your _tongue_ ,” and Clint takes that as a hint to give him an extra swirl. Rogers' hands float up to rest on Clint's shoulders, palms brushing his skin and fingers rigidly extended, neither grabbing nor pushing away, just . . . resting. Until Clint gets a hand around his scrotum, his fingertips pressing up behind his nuts while his thumb brushes over the puckered skin and down the seam, when Rogers grunts and clamps his hands down, pulling Clint up and away from that delicious swollen cock. Clint might grunt in protest but he absolutely does not pout.

“Wait,” Rogers says, breathless. “I don't . . .”

“Is there a problem?” Clint asks, bracing his hands on the bed beside Rogers' hips so that Rogers doesn't have to do all the work of holding him up, although he still mostly does.

Rogers shakes his head. “That feels incredible. But I don't want to—” He tips his face to look at Clint, and god he looks fantastic thus dishevelled, flushed and sweating with his hair sticking up all over the place. “I don't always—I mean, I can usually—I don't always stop at one. I can stay—and I mean it's not really fair for me to—when you still haven't—I'm sorry.” Rogers shrugs, and his face flushes even redder.

Clint's eyes widen. “Wait,” he says. “Are you apologizing for being able to come more than once?”

Rogers nods, frowning abashedly.

“Seriously?” Clint blinks, because huh. Apparently _that_ rumor was true after all. “I don't believe you—I mean I believe it, but . . . When I'm with women who can come ten times for my one? I don't begrudge them that. I think it's awesome, and I'm happy to help make it happen or just to be there to watch. I don't see how this should be any different.”

“But you—” Rogers protests, and Clint raises one arm off the bed to lay a finger across Rogers' lips.

“Nuh-uh, shh.” Clint lifts his finger away and uses it to flick Rogers' nipple, earning a satisfying twitch. “I'll come when I'm ready. You, in the meantime, are going to come as much as I can make you.”

Rogers moans and drops his head back, loosening his grip so that Clint can slide back down to his crotch.

Clint remembers to strip his pants off first, this time, before he gets back to work, and keeps one hand wrapped around his own dick while the other steers Rogers' by the base back towards his mouth. He sucks it down as far as he can then pulls off with a pop, glancing up over Rogers' majestic muscular topography to his avidly watching face. “If you want you can, um. Grab your tits or whatever. Do what feels good.” Then he gets into the groove.

It takes a while to build back up to where they were, even with Clint pulling out his best tricks and alternating between rolling Rogers' balls in his palm and stroking over the portion of shaft that his mouth can't easily reach with a spit-slippery corkscrewing action that mirrors the motion of his other hand on his own cock (swapping hands periodically to share the lubrication-love). Rogers is nervous, resistant, reluctant to let go. Once he does, though, thrusting up into Clint's mouth with a choked-off curse, they're off to the races.

Clint has read about male multiple orgasms before, and about how you're supposed to be able to achieve them by holding off ejaculation, backing off just when you're about to get there. This isn't like that. Rogers ejaculates the first time, copiously, enough that he catches Clint across the cheek with a last errant spurt when he pulls off to catch his breath and swallow. Clint gives him a minute to recover, stroking them both lazily and watching for any sign of distress or finality, but Rogers, as promised, stays hard.

“You doin' alright?” Clint asks, and Rogers, though he keeps his eyes closed, arches an eyebrow before he nods. “Alrighty then.”

The second orgasm is easier than the first but less messy, and the third upholds this precedent, resembling more an especially spirited release of pre-come than actual ejaculation but clearly a significant peak of pleasure for Rogers who gasps and bucks and moans, “oh, shit, _Barton_.”

Clint gives up on the blowjob, then, but not on his quest to get Rogers off as many times as superhumanly possible. He crawls up on the bed to lie beside him, gingerly massaging his exhausted jaw, then wraps a hand around each of their dicks and strokes him through orgasm number four (“Oh fuck, how—”) and five, hot on its heels. Clint matches pace on his own cock, speeding up as Rogers tenses and growls and easing off when he goes slack, but that's not going to work for much longer.

“What's your record?” he asks hoarsely as he soothes Rogers out of number five. “In one session, how many times?”

“I, uh . . . think twelve or thirteen,” Rogers answers when he recovers his breath enough to speak.

“You think?”

“Hard to know,” Rogers says. “I kinda blacked out that time.”

“Jesus,” Clint groans, and rolls on top of Rogers, rubbing his cock against Rogers' through the slick of sweat, spit, and spunk. He'd love to shoot for the title, he really would, but even if Rogers can get there tonight there's no chance in hell that Clint will last that long, even at this accelerating pace. He tries to thrust against Rogers, gasps, and nearly collapses against his chest, but Rogers, despite shaking like a plucked string himself, takes over, rolling Clint onto his back.

He starts by holding himself up on one hand while he takes hold of both their cocks with one warm hand—and did Clint mention how gorgeous his hands were?—while Clint lies back obligingly with his arms stretched overhead in a futile effort to cool off, then drops to his elbow and grabs Clint by the pit hair.

“Gah!” Clint yelps and arches off the bed because god _damn_ that hurts, but Rogers hangs on, even tightens his grip a little, and all Clint can do is drop his head and pant. “Ahh. You got a mean streak there, Captain!” He laughs and breathes through his mouth, riding the rush of endorphins or the acclimation curve or whatever's happening to him now, and pretty soon the pain's not so bad, nothing he can't handle, and not really that unlike a good hard pull on the hair on his head. Clint likes a good hard pull.

“Nnnh, yeah,” Clint sighs as Rogers tightens his grip on hair and flesh. He rolls his head to look at him and finds him staring into the gap between their bodies, watching his own pumping fist. “Think you got one more?”

Rogers looks up, his face shiny and bottom lip shivering as he gulps for breath. He nods.

“My count?” Clint says, and Rogers groans. “One . . . two . . .”

'Three' gets lost in a rush of air as Rogers flips them over, holding Clint above him by one shoulder as he comes so that his semen spills onto Roger's belly instead of his own and okay, Clint never doubted the story about Rogers diving on a dummy grenade during training, but this seems excessive—except for how Rogers _mewls_ when the first burst splashes hot on his skin and then he's ejaculating too, not as voluminously at the first time but not skimping either and, oh, that's hot.

They spend about a minute just gasping for breath after Rogers tips Clint back onto the bed beside him, then Rogers rolls over to retrieve a pair of towels from a stack on top of his dresser. Clint uses the one Rogers hands him to mop clumsily at the sweat coating his face, arms, and chest as well as wiping off his hands and crotch, then drops it over the side of the bed. Rogers, once satisfied with his efforts at cleaning himself, climbs back onto the bed and snuggles up against Clint, who grunts and swats him away. “Too hot,” he complains, and Rogers wriggles around on the bedspread, now considerably less crisp and orderly than it had been when they began, until their bodies are perpendicular—good job Stark or Pepper or whoever it was who commanded that every Avenger's apartment contain a bed big enough for four—and rests his head on Clint's belly.

“That was a lovely way to end the evening,” Rogers says, and Clint lifts his head to look down at him with raised eyebrows. Rogers tries to smile back sweetly, but Clint can see the smirk that's fighting to break out on his face. He snorts.

“That's an understatement.”

“Seriously, though: thank you for the invitation. I really did have a fantastic time.” Rogers puts a hand on Clint's chest and strokes his skin gently with his thumb.

“I should hope so.” Clint rubs his jaw again, then lays his hand on top of Rogers'. “Thank you for taking me up on it. It was . . . I needed that.”

Rogers hums and nestles his face in closer to Clint's skin, and Clint crosses his other hand over his body to ruffle Rogers' hair. Rogers sighs contentedly.

“I should probably head back to my own floor,” Clint says, tapping his fingers on Rogers' scalp.

Rogers looks up at him. “You're welcome to stay.”

“Yeah . . .” Clint turns his eyes to the ceiling. “I don't like waking up in new places unless I have to.”

“Okay,” Rogers says, and doesn't hold him down when he sits up.

Clint pauses at the edge of Rogers' bed, stretching out his neck, then gathers up the pieces of his uniform. He pulls up his pants, steps into his boots, and puts the vest over his shoulders but doesn't zip it up.

“Can I—I don't know. Walk you to your door?” Rogers asks from the bed, and Clint laughs quietly to himself.

“Appreciate the offer, Captain, but I think I can handle things from here.” He scoops up his gear from the chair, undershirt and socks balled up in his other hand, and moves towards the door.

Rogers meets him there after pulling on a clean pair of boxers, and Clint frowns, worrying for a moment that he's acquired himself a star-spangled puppy-dog, but Rogers just stops in front of him with his hands on the outsides of Clint's arms. “JARVIS,” he says, looking up at the ceiling in a way that Clint knows is completely unnecessary but very hard to resist, “remember to exercise maximum discretion around everything that happened here tonight, okay?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answers, smooth as ever.

“Right.” Clint swallows. “Good idea.”

He takes a step towards the door then stops because Rogers is still touching his arms.

“You know where to find me,” Rogers says, and kisses him, gently, before holding the door for Clint to shuffle out into the hallway, then watches from the threshold until the elevator doors close.


End file.
